Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (5 page)

LAND LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM AS IF HE WOULD
find something or someone to explain how his name could be written on anything, how anything at all could be meant for him. With trembling hands, he opened the envelope and began to read the first letter he had ever been sent.

 

You live in the ruins of a once-proud kingdom destroyed by greed and misguided ambition. But fear not – Decresian shall be restored. And it falls to you, Oland Born, to do so. On such young shoulders, it will prove astonishing how light this burden will be.

 

Your quest is to find the Crest of Sabian before The Great Rains fall, lest the mind's toil of a rightful king be washed away.

In life, a father's folly may be his son's reward.

 

In case this letter were to fall into the wrong hands, to guide you, know this:

Depth and height

From blue to white

What's left behind

Is yours to find.

 

Be wise in your choice of companion and, by nightfall, be gone.

 

In fondness and faith,

King Micah of Decresian

 

The letter was dated the night King Micah died. Oland reread his name on the envelope. He reread it in the letter. He was utterly bewildered. How could King Micah have ever known the name of a boy who was born after his death? Oland read the king's words several times more and, each time, new questions arose. Where was Sabian? Why was its crest important to Decresian? Why was he chosen to find it? Oland thought of the homeless man in the village, how only a crazy man believed that The Great Rains would return. A crazy man and a dead king. Whose ‘mind's toil' was King Micah speaking of? Who was the rightful king? King Micah and Queen Cossima had had no children; Oland knew that to be the absolute truth. What father, what son was King Micah talking about? Why was he to leave before nightfall? How could King Micah have even known what night he would discover the letter? How could Oland possibly just leave everything to go on a quest?

But what was ‘everything'?
thought Oland. For years, he had been praying for release from Castle Derrington, but had always thought it would be linked to his mother. Instead, a dead king had responded to his prayer.

Now, his choice was to trade a world he knew but hated for a world he did not know and feared.

But
, thought Oland,
is there any place on earth worse than Castle Derrington?

And from that simple question came the simple answer,
No
. There could be nothing in the wider world that could eclipse the fear he felt, festering, as he was, in the black walls of Castle Derrington. Outside, surely, there could only ever be more light.

Oland folded up the letter and put it back inside the play, sliding it between two other plays on the shelf. Villius would be looking for him in the great hall. Before he could go anywhere, he would have to show his face. But, as he made his way down the spiral staircase, his first surge of excitement was replaced with thoughts of his mother returning to find that no son had awaited her, even though, for fourteen years, he had.

Oland quickened his pace and darted across the courtyard. Most of The Craven Lodge had left the great hall, though it was still an hour to midnight. On the table, he saw the toppled candlesticks, and the rivulets of wax that had bled from them, now hardened. Oland patted his pocket for his knife then remembered he had left it in The Holdings when he had changed clothes after The Games. He grabbed a candlestick from the table, lit it and moved as quickly as he could along the hallway.

As he passed the throne room, he was startled to see a figure clothed in black emerging. He must have been six-and-a-half-feet tall. Only his eyes were exposed; the rest of his face and neck was swathed in layers of fine black gauze that did little to conceal the strange contours of his bones. Oland and he froze, inches from each other.

In a flash, the man reached out and pinched the wick of the candle to quench the flame. In the windowless hallway, the darkness was absolute.

“Oland Born…” whispered the man. When he spoke, the air was filled with the scent of cinderberry. Oland noticed that the gauze was glistening. It must have been soaked in cinderberry salve. This man, whoever he was, had been wounded.

“Who are you?” said Oland. “What do you want?”

“You,” said the man.

They heard footsteps behind them, and, shockingly close, the voice of Villius Ren calling for Wickham.

Before Oland could react, the man in black had dragged him into the throne room and closed the door. Oland thought his heart would explode from his chest. He was in the forbidden room, with an intruder, and Villius Ren was only seconds away.

The room stank of stale breath and rotting meat. Oland had often seen Villius Ren walking towards the throne room with a plate of food, and he wondered if what he was smelling now were his rotting leftovers. After all, even those who cleaned the castle were forbidden to enter the throne room.

“What do you want?” said Oland.

“Shh,” said the man. His left hand was clenching the back of Oland's neck, pressing his cheek against the cold stone wall.

Outside, Villius Ren's footsteps were drawing closer. By the jangle of chains, Oland knew that Viande was by his side. The relief was overwhelming; Villius would not be coming in unless he was alone. Oland could feel the intruder's grip slacken a little, as if he too knew about the sanctity of the room. Oland took the chance to push back hard, breaking the man's hold. He could feel the same overwhelming sensations he had felt in the arena, a surge of strength and focus. The man grunted, and stumbled backward.

“No!” he hissed. “No!” He reached out to grab Oland, but Oland used his forearm to block his advance. In one motion, he turned, raised his knee to his chest and slammed his boot down on the intruder's knee, with enough force to drop him to the ground.

Oland pulled open the door, slipped into the dark hallway and ran. He heard the man come out after him; he heard him lock the throne room door. He wondered who he was, and how he could have stolen the key from Villius Ren.

The advice in King Micah's letter came back to Oland: ‘by nightfall, be gone'.

N
T
HE
H
OLDINGS
, O
LAND GRABBED HIS BAG, AND IN IT HE
quickly threw his book, his play, his knife, a tinderbox and a change of clothes. He wrapped up the second plate of food and added that. He read the king's letter one more time, then put it in his breast pocket. He had hoped it would fill him with belief, or courage, or inspiration, but all he felt was sorrow and uncertainty. He looked down at his tin soldiers. His latest addition, bought from a stall in the market, stood holding an arquebus to his shoulder. Oland had never seen a real arquebus before; he doubted that anyone in Decresian had. He admired this new, magical weapon that fired balls of lead, and meant a soldier could be more than a sword's swipe away.

Oland took the soldier and put it in his pocket for good luck. He left his room, locked the door and put the key in his bag. He was ready. Villius would be about to leave and The Craven Lodge wouldn't be far behind him. At that moment, the nine hundred and ninety-nine screaming souls began their wailing, as if reassuring Oland it was the right time to go. He thought of his mother coming back for him, but he shook the thought away.

Then, rising over the screaming souls, Oland heard a tormented, wolf-like howl. He ran to the tiny window and looked down. He could see nothing or no one to explain it. He ran down the spiral staircase and along the hallway to the great hall. A chill overcame him, and he went to button his tunic at the neck. The button was gone. It must have broken off the previous night when Villius had pushed him towards the flame of the candle in the great hall.

As he was about to turn the corner, he heard the voices of Wickham and Viande. He stopped to watch their distorted reflections in a shield that was mounted on the wall. He had placed and polished shields on almost every busy corner of the castle, so he could see – and perhaps avoid – what lay ahead.

“I am telling you, he has gone insane,” said Viande, tapping his chubby fingers against the side of his head. “Those were the howls of a man gone roxley! This place is possessed! And I am telling you he said to me not to let the boy live one more night.”

“What?” said Wickham.

“I'm telling you Villius insisted ‘not one more night'!” said Viande. “I'm not going near him. You saw what he did in that arena! How am I to—”

“I'm sorry, but I don't understand this,” said Wickham. There was panic in his voice. “I thought Villius wanted Oland bound in slavery to this castle for life. Why else would he have me invent a ridiculous tale to keep him here: oh, his tragic birth, and how one day his mother would return to claim him…?”

A fierce pain swelled in Oland's chest. Everything he had believed about his birth was the product of a storyteller's imagination. All the ideas Oland had ever had about who his parents might be were now worthless: anyone could be his father; anyone could be his mother. They could be living or dead, they could be looking for him, or they could have abandoned him with no further intentions. For six years, he had built hopes on these words, he had built a future on them. And now he could feel something deep in the pit of his stomach replace them: a dull and powerful aching anger.

It was at this moment that Oland knew he would never again spend a night in Castle Derrington. But one day he would return. And on that day the beast he would slay would be a man named Villius Ren.

Wickham had trailed off. Oland could see why. Villius, looking more enraged than Oland thought possible, appeared in front of them, wild-eyed. His hair was flat and damp against his skull, his face greasy and ghostlike.

“Villius,” said Wickham, taking a step back. “Is everything—”

“What are you still doing here?” he roared. “I told you to go, didn't I? I told you to leave! Is it that whatever I tell people to do, they do the opposite now?”

“Of course not, Villius,” said Wickham. “I was merely waiting to ask you if there were any territories in particular—”

“Everything is destroyed!” said Villius. “Everything is destroyed! Look!” He was holding up something small. “Look!”

Oland couldn't make it out in the mottled reflection.

“A button?” said Viande.

“You don't understand!” said Villius. “It's Oland Born's button! It was on the floor in my throne room! He was in my throne room! Everything has been destroyed!”

The intruder
, thought Oland.
He must have ripped it off when he grasped my neck!

“He left it unlocked!” said Villius. “He left it unlocked!” He was utterly crazed.

Oland was puzzled. The throne room door
had
been locked. He had heard the distinctive rattle behind him as he fled the intruder. But, as was often the case, paranoia had perhaps clouded Villius' judgement.

Of course, he had not been completely wrong. Oland
had
been in his throne room. But what could possibly be inside that would cause an intruder so much interest, and Villius Ren so much rage at its disturbance?

Oland's heart was pounding louder than the screaming souls, louder than the inhuman howls of Villius Ren, louder than his own footsteps as he ran down the hallway, ran through the stables, ran across the grounds and out into the world he did not know, but feared.

He knew that he was as dead as a boy with a still-beating heart could be.